I bought a rail ticket to Penzance, joined the YHA and booked up a string of hostels. I had made many hostel cycling trips while at school with my friends, and later with my family. I was pleased to see that the association had moved with the times. Now a map of the South West hostels appeared on my screen, a click gave the hostel details, and sometimes a few more clicks made a booking.

Mo waved me off from home at 7.40am on Wednesday 4/5/5. The train ride suffered from "sheep on the line", but got me to Penzance by 2.00pm. Outside the station was a windy seascape with clouds rushing across the sky. By 5.00pm I was at Land's End ready for my ride to begin.

Land's End can be crowded and commercialised but this evening it was empty and wild. As I turned to start I saw a photo-session with four serious-looking lady cyclists obviously heading for the plan "A" Big Ride. I gave them a smile. I was to see them at the hostel that night and on two other nights as we traversed Cornwall at much the same pace. The wind blew lustily form the North, but my feet pedalled on, happy to be on their way after all the planning. I stopped and climbed a rocky wall and I did a sketch for my postcards. The warden of the Land's End hostel was a lovely lady. She welcomed me with a tempting listing of the night's menu. It was indeed really delicious: home made soup, a pork cutlet in nan bread with peas, a home made apple pie with ice cream ... and coffee. As always at hostels we were on long tables and it was so easy to meet and chat. On our table was a lone cyclist from St Austell whose wife had died from cancer. After our supper we set off the mile to the sea to watch the sunset.

How easy cycling is! I arrived at St Ives to read dire warnings that the road into the town was closed to all visitor cars! No problem with a bike. I rode down to the harbour, had some refreshment, and walked my bicycle past the artist's studios. It was a better day. The wind was more from the West and I was soon at Perranporth. I had expected to lie on the beach in the sun, but it was not to be. The wind was still blustery and I left my bike at the hostel and walked along the cliffs instead. The hostel has the most wonderful position perched on the cliffs over the sea. As the warden described, it had during the war been a research station for "active sonar". The cables from the sea were still visible.

The next day I was to visit my old clarinet partner in the Harwell Buskers jazz band. They had given up everything in Harwell village and bought a B&B, Tregenna House in Pentire, near Newquay, Cornwall. I visited them for coffee. There was rain in the air, and it was cold, but my welcome could not have been warmer. My clothes were immediately whisked off for drying. The B&B was no small affair, but an old vicarage of grace and stature. They seemed so happy with their new life and I could not but wonder at their confidence in being able to change their own lives so drastically.

As a child I had often been taken to Cornwall for holidays. The next part of the ride, from Newquay up to Tintagel covered the beaches where we had usually visited. I had rashly chosen the coastal road which went up and down. The ups were so steep that I seemed to have to have to push the bike forward with all my strength, the downs so steep that my brakes were full on and I had to lean back to hold back my bike. Newquay beaches were just the same! There was the old "Beach View" Hotel where we had all stayed in 1946.

For my lunch I stopped at that most wonderful beach - Bedruthan Steps. This time I did not do the long climb down. But my mind went back to long ago when I had walked along the beach past the great Queen Bess rock, and had superb swims with my Dad in the breakers on the firm sands between the rocks. A kind couple agreed to take my picture near the spot where I remembered it from the family photo album.

I cycled on visiting the beaches of my childhood holidays, Porthcothan Bay and Harlyn Bay. The chalets where we had stayed were replaced by smart new bungalows, but the beaches and cliffs were just the same. At Porthcothan the lovely sandy estuary and river behind the beach was full of flowers. I cycled on to Padstow, where my darling daughter Liz and James had become engaged at Rick Stein's restaurant. I caught the little pedestrian ferry across to Rock.

Tintagel youth hostel is as remote as they come. You come to the town, then cycle on down a rough track until at the last moment the hostel appears, snuggled into the cliff. It was warm and cosy. It was a pleasure to meet again the 4 lady cyclists and their men. They had spent the previous night at a B&B as they booked each night at the distance they felt they could manage. Every night they would pour over their numerous maps and decide the next day's route and where they would stay. They shared their pizza with me!

The next day I was to meet our singing friend David, at Bude where we had spent many a happy holiday. David has spent most of his life there, and as a teacher seemed to know everyone in the town. I arrived at 10.15 as he had to sing at a wedding later. Later we lunched at the beach-side cafe of one of his friends. He went off to the wedding and I joined him after the wedding to be shown round the old church in my cycling shorts and luminous cape!

Elmscott hostel on Hartland Point was in quiet country a mile from the sea. I had a long cycle the next day, so I was up early and bowled along with the wind behind me for once. I cycled along the perfect "Tarka track" along the old railway line from Bideford to Banstable. I made good progress, partly because my planned route via Bampton was closed and I had to take the main A road. For once I could wizz down the long hills even up to 33 mph. The B&B at Taunton was a luxurious pleasure with a magnificent breakfast.

The next day was an easy one to Cheddar and I arrived at the hostel at lunchtime. They had a day room where I could eat my lunch and leave my things while I saw the gorge. I bought a pensioner's ticket which included Gough's cave and a cream tea. The cave brought back the enormous length of time and the shortness of our time here. The stalagmites grow only 1cm a century. My only disaster of the trip came that night when I found out that I had made up my bed in the ladies' dormitory!

My feet were going well and I felt like going the 100 miles to home. Sadly the wind had changed and it was now a quite strong North East breeze against me. I started early and made my slow way up to the top of the gorge. It took 40 minutes before I was at the top! It was hilly again and progress to Bath was not fast. But there in the Avon valley was the Kennet and Avon canal. I had not realised what a fine cycle path it was. The scenery was wonderful. For once it was dead flat and one could make steady progress. Swindon was a bit of a nightmare with poorly labelled cycle ways but eventually I reached the "magic roundabout" and was on the right road out. I was tired but I could see from my map that I was not too far from the areas which I had reached on my training runs. Soon I saw ahead the cooling towers of Didcot and I realised I was getting home. The came Goosey, the end of one of my training routes, and it seemed easy after that. Mo caught me up in her car just a mile before home. She had left choir early to welcome me home!